


Vir lath sa'vunin

by Ossobuco



Series: Mahariel 'verse [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/F, PWP, Reunion Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:27:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21926530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ossobuco/pseuds/Ossobuco
Summary: Lyna Mahariel left her clan to join the Grey Wardens, and Merrill was sent away soon after; a decade later, they meet again under the banner of the newly-formed Inquisition. This is Just Smut! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧
Relationships: Female Mahariel/Merrill (Dragon Age), Mahariel/Merrill
Series: Mahariel 'verse [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/41499
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	Vir lath sa'vunin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theharellan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theharellan/gifts).

> This was a prompt fill for @theharellan from a couple months back!

They claim a room at the Herald’s Rest, both for privacy and access to some semblance of a bed. (Lyna is sharing quarters in the barracks, and while Merrill hasn’t volunteered information about her sleeping arrangements, Lyna suspects it involves hay bales in the stables.) The little chamber is airy even with the curtains closed, and the few furnishings it contains are well-made. It smells much less like beer and stale sweat than the rest of the tavern, though–she hopes–soon they’ll be too distracted for it to matter either way. 

That’s what this is about, after all. Distraction. Surviving until the next day, and the next after that, long enough to defeat a seemingly omnipotent foe. Isn’t it?

Merrill’s hands are trembling so badly that she can barely lock the door, and in what dim light filters through the drapes, her face looks pallid. Still, she musters a shy little smile as she returns to Lyna and takes her hands (her fingers are so cold, Lyna wants to rub them between her palms to warm them up).

“I feel so awkward,” Merrill laughs, eyes downcast. “I haven’t… haven’t done anything like this in a while. A long while. And I don’t want to disappoint you–I’m not very good at this, I th–”

“Merrill,” Lyna murmurs, squeezing the slighter woman’s hands as she sits down on the side of the bed. It is piled with blankets and yields under her weight, much too soft for her to sleep on, but more comfortable for this sort of thing. “It’ll be fine.”

Merrill leans down with her, sits beside her; she fidgets with Lyna’s hands, splaying her fingers and rubbing her thumb over their knuckles. “How can you always sound so sure about everything?”

_Because people have to believe in me_, Lyna thinks, but Merrill leans close before she can answer. Their lips meet tentatively, like they’re young again and uncertain; Merrill’s lips are thin and delicate, and her fingers are gentle and light as they cup Lyna’s cheek and trail down her neck. Her hair is soft like halla wool as Lyna brushes a few locks back over her ear–her neck and back are bony even though her clothes. 

They pause; Merrill’s hands rest on Lyna’s shoulders, her cheek rests against Lyna’s cheek. Then, she reaches down, her hand still cold as she runs it over Lyna’s thigh and down to her knee–obligingly, Lyna raises one leg, then the other, as Merrill undoes the laces of her boots. 

“I don’t know how you stand these,” Merrill remarks as she sets them aside. 

Lyna allows herself to smile. “I hate them, but with this many people around, the ground’s so dirty…”

They kiss again, more decisively. Merrill’s tongue slides between her lips, and Lyna nudges Merrill closer, by her shoulders, by her waist; a hunger is blooming in Lyna’s belly and loins, its potency taking her by surprise. Lyna hasn’t said as much, but she hasn’t lain with anyone in a long time, either. What with the demands of her Grey Warden duties, it was always easier to ignore a romantic flight of fancy, or ease a rare swell of passion in her chambers, alone. She’s almost forgotten how it feels to show desire before someone else, to make herself so vulnerable–forgotten how desperately her skin craves another’s touch, how badly her hands want _to_ touch.

Merrill’s knees sink into the mattress on either side of her, her body arching gently into Lyna’s. Lyna drags her hands down Merrill’s sides to find the hem of her shirt; Merrill shivers as Lyna’s fingers skim underneath it, up her ribs, caressing the sides of her breasts. There’s a sound in Merrill’s throat that is not quite a whine as she presses forward into Lyna’s hands, and in another moment, they are slipping Merrill’s shirt off. Her paleness makes the room feel like it’s drenched in moonlight, and Lyna needs that soft skin and slender body against hers–

Merrill helps to pull Lyna’s tunic over her head, and then they are together again, Merrill breathlessly kissing Lyna’s throat, skin against bare skin. There is pleasure in every place that their bodies are in contact–their bellies touching, Lyna’s hands on Merrill’s back pressing their chests close. She lies back, sinking into the enveloping softness of the blankets; straddling Lyna’s thighs, Merrill looks down at her, pupils dilated and cheeks flushing rosy-red. Her breasts rise and fall in shallow gasps for air, nipples puckered, but even so, she wrings her hands for a few taut seconds. 

“This is really what you want?” she asks, voice wavering with desire and hope and disbelief all at once. Her hands rest just above the waistband of Lyna’s breeches, finally warm but still quivering. 

Lyna presses her hands over Merrill’s, praying that the gesture is calming rather than patronizing, or worse, desperate. Her throat is desert-dry as she answers, “it’s what I want.”

And _Creators_, does she want it. Her heart is racing just at the sight of Merrill’s nude torso, at the featherweight of her on Lyna’s legs, at her fingertips twitching faintly on her hips. Those fingertips glide up, slowly, and Merrill leans forward--fingers tracing up Lyna’s muscular flank, over the bulk of her shoulders--she supports herself with one arm beside Lyna’s head, and slides the other down to Lyna’s breast, first merely feeling the shape of it, then pressing (Lyna inhales, heightening the sensation) and squeezing. Lyna reciprocates as well as she can, sliding both hands up Merrill’s ribcage, brushing fingers over her nipples, then stroking them firmly. A breathless “_oh_” sticks in Merrill’s throat, and when she bows her head to inhale again, Lyna captures her lips, burying one hand back into her hair. 

Merrill sinks into the hand that remains on her breast, sinks into the kiss with another little whine--and as Lyna pulls her shoulders down close, Merrill’s hips press onto Lyna’s. It is a light touch, barely any friction, but it is still electrifying, and Merrill doesn’t stop; she shifts her weight, opens her legs a little wider, and the pressure this time makes Lyna’s breaths hitch, makes her back want to arch and intensify the pressure--

\--but Merrill pauses, mouthing under Lyna’s jaw for a second or two longer, sits up. She licks her lips. Her hands find Lyna’s waist again, but this time, they unsteadily trace the band of her breeches.

“Can--can I take these off?” she asks.

“Yes--” Lyna tries not to answer too quickly. 

Bending low over Lyna’s abdomen, Merrill undoes the buttons with only a moment of fumbling, and takes a deep breath before working her fingers under the waistband. Lyna lifts her hips just slightly off the bed and helps Merrill pull them down inch by inch. Breathing shakily, Merrill traces the newly-revealed skin, the creases where Lyna’s legs join her body, the wiry red hair between them–continues to ease the breeches down her muscular thighs, and finally lets them drop to the floor beside their bed.

In the ensuing moment of stillness, Lyna feels terrifyingly revealed, but the way Merrill’s eyes wander and rove, the way her hands sit still on Lyna’s hipbones, is… is wondrous, in a way, both exciting and reassuring.

Merrill looks down and smiles bashfully. “Oh--mine, too?” She thumbs at her leggings. Lyna sits up to help slide them down past her bony hips, revealing sparse hair that doesn’t quite hide the shape of her labia, nor the wetness building there. They slip easily off her thighs, and Merrill nudges them out of the way.

She pauses and exhales, then, seeming to collect herself. Sitting at an angle, with her feet dangling a little ways off the mattress and her knees pulled up towards her body, her skin is ivory-pale and almost pearlescent, except under the spread of her _vallaslin_ where she is flushed deep red. Her larynx moves beneath her skin as she swallows, the lines and hollows of her throat softened in shadow. 

“Merrill,” Lyna prompts, and her longtime friend looks up again.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, pulling her legs back under her and straightening by a few degrees. “I _have_ missed you. Really. Not just this, I mean–I _do_ miss this,” she giggles gently, “but even if you didn’t want it, I’d be glad to see you.”

Lyna wishes her own feelings were less complicated. Merrill is her friend, of course, regardless of the years spanning between them; maybe she is something more than that, Lyna doesn’t know; but at the same time, she is the image of the life that Lyna had been forced to leave behind, a catalyst of memories that will only grow more dim and threadbare over time, never to be refreshed or repaired. In a way, she is a different sort of mirror, showing fragments of the person Lyna was before the Blight, slivers of the woman she could have become. 

“I’ve missed you, too,” she replies past a strange lump in her throat, and then--stiffly, she doesn’t know why she’s saying it, but it comes out anyway-- “I’ve lost so much, _so much_ I’ll never have again--”

Merrill takes one of Lyna’s hands between hers, stroking it, but barely looking at it; her eyes are locked on Lyna’s, even as she nudges herself closer, lies down in the soft bedding next to her. Lyna cups her cheek, and now it’s her own hand that is trembling.

“--it’s good I haven’t lost you, too.”

They kiss again, slowly, savoring each other. Lyna pulls Merrill over her and lets her knees fall open, while Merrill sinks down against her, nuzzling the side of her neck, moving one hand down to squeeze and stroke her breast. Her hips press down between Lyna’s thighs, a wave of heat rushing through Lyna’s body; the mere sight of her like this intensifies Lyna’s arousal. She groans and opens her legs wider, and Merrill shifts between them, even lower, until her clit brushes Lyna’s, smooth and hot. 

Another soft groan escapes her, made muffled and nasal as Merrill kisses her lips again. Their vulvas glide against each other as Merrill finds an easy rhythm, rocking against Lyna with slow, even thrusts. Lyna can hardly think, as Merrill is so firmly pressed against her, from chest to belly to pelvis, small and perfect in Lyna’s arms, nestled between her legs. They are both breathing faster, and Merrill’s languid kisses are accompanied by needy little whimpers. Lyna wants _more_, firmer contact, faster, harder, and she’s close to trying to slip a hand between them, to add more pressure for both of them, but on sudden impulse, she reaches her hand over Merrill’s back and behind--

Merrill gasps against Lyna’s jaw as the callused fingertips trace her labia, then slide just barely inside her. She is dripping wet, open and tender, and her whines become more frequent and intense as Lyna strokes at her entrance. For a little while, Lyna focuses on matching her strokes to Merrill’s rhythm, but it isn’t long before her thrusts become more forceful. Merrill’s hand slides up to Lyna’s jaw and cheek, she kisses her hungrily, sloppily--Lyna feels her tensing around her fingers, and slides in deeper, pressing harder--

“Oh, oh, _oh, oh--_” Merrill is keening, and then she ducks her head and moans onto Lyna’s sternum, hips rocking desperately. Even though she’s squeezing around Lyna’s fingers, Lyna keeps them moving, drawing second after second of pleasure from her. Finally, Merrill’s breaths slow, and she collapses beside her; her brow shimmers with sweat, a few strands of hair stuck in awkward angles to it. 

Lyna focuses very hard on the fit of her arm around Merrill’s heaving torso, trying to ignore the unfulfilled ache inside her as her partner breathes. Moments pass, and then Merrill sighs out one long breath. 

“That was good,” she smiles, kissing Lyna’s cheek. “But you haven’t--you didn’t, right? Shall I...?” she touches Lyna’s knee, works her hand up her thigh a little ways. Just this simple touch is like a flame on Lyna’s skin.

“Oh, Creators, please,” she murmurs, the urgency in her voice sustaining into a breathy moan as Merrill eases her legs open again. It’s a good thing (she thinks, before the sensations all but consume her) that they’ve paid for the room until the morrow.


End file.
